ignorance is not bliss
by atelophobic
Summary: She never quite understood, and he never quite cared. — Soul/Maka


_(yay for word vomit.)  


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**ignorance is (not) bliss**

_disclaimer :: soul eater is not mine._**  
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_(why don't you just kill something beautiful?)  
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She looks up in the sky with a cigarette barely hanging on her pale lips. She smiles bitterly.

The sky is crying. It is soaking her clothes, drenching her hair, and taking the fire out of her cigarette.

She likes it better this way, you know.

It wouldn't be fair if the earth was smiling at her the day her world came crashing down.

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_(do not cross. do not cross. do not cro-)_

The weary sky paints itself orange and red and vibrant-vibrant pink. She watches him in a love-drunk gaze, a slight smile gracing her features.

His dark figure contrasts brilliantly against the fading sunlight, his hair absorbing the softly-swirling shades of pink. She thinks that this moment is beautiful.

He walks to a tree, and she knows he is smirking, she could feel it in her very veins. He leans down, and she hears a giggle, faraway in the distance, in his world.

She turns away in disgust and sorrow and longing.

She wishes that she could be the one with him, the one with the girly laugh, the one with the luck. The one able to cross over that forbidden red line that separates friends from lovers.

But then she smiles wryly to herself.

They were never meant to be, anyway.

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_(why must you tease? why must you-)_

She doesn't quite know what love means.

She knows that love is supposed to be a beautiful-strange thing, a non-tangible object made up of happily-ever-afters and content sighs and happiness. She knows that love is supposed to be a sacred thing, a thing meant to last forever, something perpetual.

But she is not stupid. That is what love is _supposed _to be made out of, but it isn't, not really.

Love is made out of broken hearts and hours waiting halfheartedly for the phone to ring. Love is made out of drunken whispers at a dingy dance club and one night stands and the inevitable after-effects. Love is made out of crying your heart out, love is made out of backstabbing lies, love is made out of girls and boys being too afraid to make the first step.

Love is cruel.

And she doesn't understand, because what happened to the promises and secret smiles and pinky-swears and holding hands that she read about in her books?

She ponders over it for a while, a good two years, really, until she simply... stops.

She accepts reality over fantasy. It is easy for her to finally accept, with her cheating cretin of a father and a pretty-playboy partner.

But she can still dream.

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_(can you hold me? just this-)_

She thinks that she maybe had a little too much to eat. Or maybe a lot too little.

There is this sick feeling at the pit of her tummy, and she can't imagine what it is. She thinks that maybe his new girl, Girlfriend Number Eleven, brought over food gone bad. After all, the pains started to come after Girlfriend Number Eleven came over to their little flat.

But then she thinks a little differently. It is not made out of spoiled Chinese food, nor is it because she ate too much.

She is heartbroken, again, for the eleventh time. She lets the stew of overpowering emotions seep into her mind, her heart, her _soul._

He could have sensed it, however faint it was, if he concentrated. He could have wondered what on earth made her so incredibly sad and bitter and jealous.

But he didn't.

She cries herself to sleep, alone, again.

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_(i hate you. i hate-)_

He wonders what he did wrong to make her so distant. He feels a little betrayed, and a little confused, but he ignores the little pangs in his heart whenever she would glance vacantly at him.

Instead, he immerses himself in his new lady, Girlfriend Number Nineteen. He forgets about her and her blank stares as he smirks and flirts with his new toy.

Long after he leaves their little flat, she looks at the door, a sort of longing lingering in her pale-green eyes. She then half-smiles, ironic mirth in her befuddled brain.

With a bottle in her hand, she forgets.

She forgets his smirks. His eyes. His hair. She forgets the way he twitches when he deems something 'uncool.' She forgets the way her heart flops messily every time he comes into her sight.

She forgets and forgets with every intoxicating sip that she takes, and soon he is blurred out of her memory. She is freed from the burden she carries with her every minute, every hour, every day.

She grins. She does not feel anything, not the pain, nor the hurt, nor the everlasting love she had for an oblivious boy.

But it is multiplied when she wakes up in his arms.

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_(do you know what it feels like? to be-)_

She doesn't know what to feel when she comes home to find half of the furniture missing.

She doesn't know what to feel when she races over to his room to find it empty.

She frowns to herself, because she knew that Girlfriend Number Twenty-Four had a special connection with him, but she didn't think it would get this serious.

She looks again at the depressingly blank room. Suddenly, she feels a surge of anger at it, because it seemed like he never lived there. It seemed like he was but an illusion from another life. She feels lonely, again. She misses him already.

The half-furnished house is but a reminder of what never was.

She redecorates the following afternoon.

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_(i love you. i love-)_

She receives a thick invitation in the mail months later. It is black, it is formal, and she knows that it is _his_.

She doesn't want to open it. She doesn't want to go.

But she does, after all, she is his best friend, so she must.

Tears blur the opening sentence of the invite.

_We are happy to invite you to our wedding..._

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_(are you happy? are you-)_

She realizes that she is a great actor. All throughout the traditional wedding of black-and-white-and-gray, she smiles and waves to him, although inwardly, she is despairing_._

She sees the glimmer of happiness in the couple's eyes, and she smiles. Their love was pure, and she couldn't hate that.

Because if he was happy, then she would be happy, too.

As the pastor asked if anyone objects to this holy matrimony, she stands up, walks down the aisle toward the door, and grins apologetically to Soul.

"I'm sorry, I have something coming up. Don't mind me. Please continue. I wish you great happiness."

She leaves with that plastered grin on her face.

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_(is this my happily-ever-after?)_

She lies down on her back on the soggy ground, her cigarette long forgotten beside her pretty little head.

The rain stopped, already, and she knows that her dress is getting muddy.

But she doesn't care, not really, not anymore.

She accepted, along with the bitter definition of this thing called love, her downfall.

She lost the game.

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**f **_i n._

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**_(review?)_**  
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